The Poop Interviews: “Coop” author Michael Perry

Today, The Poop is going to the coop. Wisconsin writer Michael Perry has a new book out, “Coop: A Year of Poultry, Pigs, and Parenting.” Because I sometimes fantasize about ditching my noisy Mission apartment for a more pastoral existence, I loved finding out what Perry and his family experienced as “backyard farmers.”

Courtesy Michael Perry

The book had some amusing and pleasant insights on farm life. Perry details his wife’s pregnancy and home birth (where he was assisted by his male doula), as well as a personal tragedy. He is a Men’s Health contributing editor whose work has also appeared in publications such as Esquire, Salon, and the New York Times Magazine. Perry answered these questions via email.

The Poop: Life in the country can seem like a dream to city and suburban dwellers. I would love to someday be able to grow my own garden, and raise my own animals to eat. What are the realities of living out this dream?

Michael Perry: A little preemptive calibration of expectations is useful. As kids who grew up on an actual working farms, I think my wife and I had a pretty realistic idea of what we were getting into. In some cases that saved us a lot of trouble … we continue to take very tiny steps. And yet I regularly bite off more than I can chew. Even with our modest handful of animals (although we live on a formerly active dairy and crop farm, we are “backyard” farmers at best) I had to learn again how much daily presence and involvement is required. Every outside invitation or engagement can only be considered after arrangements for the animals have been made.

One also quickly discovers that all the books and blogs and kitchen conversations in the world don’t prepare you for the eventualities of reality. We are in our third year on the farm and still finding our way, tweaking, making adjustments. One is always in pursuit of the perfect chicken coop. But the joy is in the living and doing. This is unoriginal of me to say, but it is best to be happy in small things … onions sprouting in spring, the unclogged pig waterer, the first fresh egg.

TP: How did you mentally and otherwise prepare for the home birth of your daughter? How was it different from what you imagined it would be?

MP: Despite the fact that I am a registered nurse and have worked as an EMT and first responder for twenty years, until my daughter was born, I had never witnessed a live birth. I had only delivered plastic babies with snap-on umbilical cords. So I re-read the obstetrics section of my original EMT textbook, watched some home-birth videos, met with the midwife. But above all I realized I was destined for a supporting role in every sense of the word, and as such, I pretty much let my wife and the other women involved take the lead. I can’t say the experience was different than I might have imagined, but I can say I was unprepared for how powerfully my wife’s strength during the delivery reinforced my love for her, and I was also struck by the peaceful transition from the dramatic act of birth to simply being together — four of us, now — in our home.

TP: What is it like working as a writer, while living on a farm? How are you able to get things done in a 24 hour period? Can you describe a “typical” day?

MP: Out of respect to the dedicated farmers of my childhood and the many dusk-to-dawn farm families of my contemporary acquaintance, I must rush to point out that I make a living as a writer and performer while raising a few animals on the side. With respect and deference to my wife, I must also point out that I am on the road some 80-100 days per year, during which time my wife and daughter are doing the chores and the vast bulk of the garden work. As is any self-employed freelancer (from a writer like me to a logger like my brother) I am driven by deadlines and any work available, so there really is no “typical” day.

But there are plenty of delightful days, especially summer mornings that begin with an hour or two in the office followed by a round of chores with my daughters: slopping the hogs, watering the sheep, collecting eggs … Even on our small scale, the animals put a rhythm and spirit into the place. I love raising a chunk of our own food for the same reason I love serving on the local volunteer rescue service: Writing and performing is a delightful and (for me) wholly unexpected way of making a living, and yet that rescue pager going off, that pig manure, those homegrown potatoes…those are the things that keep me tied to reality and mortality and — even when I am in some airport lounge or driving some stretch of I-80 — remind me that I am a lucky, grateful guy.

Courtesy Michael Perry

TP: How are farming and parenting similar?

MP: Wow. First time I’ve been asked that one. Seems a bit of a minefield! The first thing that strikes me is that both have a way of blasting away any pretension or false sensibilities you may have carefully constructed for yourself. Maybe you thought you were a bigshot, but the pig just pooped on your boot anyway. And then the baby does the same thing. Then there is this constant sense that you have assigned yourself responsibility for a being that is dependent on you acting like a grownup at some point. You also discover the limits of your influence and the importance of sometimes standing aside. You can regulate every second of that pig’s existence, but you’ll wind up with pale meat. Good then, to turn the animal loose and watch it root around joyfully, finding the food it was designed to find, long before you showed up with your Farm & Fleet boots and a bag of feed. Same with children. You must tend the fences, be the grownup, remain in charge … but you must also at some point let them go free-range, a little bit at a time, beginning earlier than you might think.

TP: We use craigslist to find apartments, concert tickets, and baby gear. I liked hearing about your use of craigslist, which may interest folks.

MP: Well sure. Me and my buddy Mills (he also served as my doula!) use it to find used fence posts, plastic pig-watering barrels, carp hunting gear, and secondhand pickle buckets. I got my last set of chicken feeders from Craigslist. It can lead to trouble, though. In “Coop” I write how Mills and I regularly try to poach each other’s goodies by making preemptive strikes. I’m still disgruntled over the way he snatched a perfectly good radial-arm saw right from beneath my nose. The friendship may not survive.